


Don't Stop

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Remembered angst, no specific timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-06
Packaged: 2019-03-28 00:35:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13892496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: Sigh...





	Don't Stop

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of history on this story:
> 
> Sorry to fall back on the old hurt/comfort tag, but I found this among the bits and pieces of handwritten stories from my earliest attempts to write in this fandom. As near as I can estimate, this originated in late 2013. It was so out of character for the Sherlock and John we’ve come to know that I tossed it in my forgotten box. And it was fear that I wasn’t a good enough writer to post anything at that time. It was quite a while later that I posted Home on FF.net, September 2014, but somehow, even after I brought all my stories over to AO3, this one never saw the light of day. So here it is, hopefully better than it was in its handwritten version, and ouch, there was a real problem with POV!
> 
> It would be nice if this could be an encouragement to a reader thinking of writing, but afraid you aren’t good enough, so, if you are reading this, step out into the light and give our boys your interpretation. :)

~sh~

“Ohhhhhhh,” John moaned into the pillow. “God, Sher-Sherlock, ohhhh, don’t stop.......juss don’t sss-top.”

Straddling John’s hips, Sherlock smiled as he pressed his thumbs firmly into the muscles of John’s lower back, eliciting more moans, groans, and deep sighs from his love. Moving his fingers to gently massage his upper back, Sherlock lowered his head to press kisses to the bruises only just beginning to bloom. Even at this early stage, they were spectacular, but not in a good way.

“Mmmmmmmm. Nice.”

“Where does it hurt most, John?” Sherlock whispered against the soft skin at John’s nape.

John shivered. “Mmmmmmmmm. I....think you should ask where it doesn’t hurt.”

John’s request made Sherlock chuckle, even as he winced at the memory of John’s tumble down a flight of cement stairs and the concussion that resulted. The sight of John’s small body sprawled at the bottom of the stairs was one he’d wish to delete, but couldn’t, and it still had the ability to turn his stomach upside down and more than once brought tears. The visible cuts and bruises only served as a constant reminder.

“I think that’s enough for now, John. It’s time for more meds.”

“’Kay.”

With utmost care, Sherlock helped John turn onto his back, and holding his hands, slowly pulled him to a sitting position. He’d found John’s softest t-shirt and pulled it over his head, gently manoeuvring his bruised arms into it. John grimaced and closed his eyes against the pain, and sighed when Sherlock kissed the purple bruise on his ribs before smoothing the t-shirt against his body.

“I am sorry, John.” Sherlock pressed the palm of his hand against John’s undamaged cheek.

“'So-Kay.” John met Sherlock’s gaze and tried to smile. Almost, but not quite.

Sherlock leaned forward and tenderly kissed John’s split lip. And his almost swollen shut left eye; and the gash above his left eyebrow, the stitches on his badly bruised cheekbone, also the left one. He turned away when his eyes filled.

“No...No. Not your fault.” John tried to move closer to him, tried to reach out, but pulled back with an obvious grunt of pain.

“Sherlock? Ow, oh God moving hurts.”

Sherlock gently helped John to the edge of the bed, his feet on the floor. John motioned Sherlock to wedge his thin body between his knees. As soon as Sherlock put his long arms around him, John nuzzled his face into the warmth of his neck.

“Not your fault,” he repeated against Sherlock’s skin.

“I should have been there, John.”

“Not your fault.”

“I-”

“Sherlock,”John raised his head and locked his stern Captain John stare on him. “Don’t make me punish you,” he ground out, raising his loosely fisted hand towards Sherlock’s jaw, but palming his cheek instead.

“John, I don’t think at this moment you are in a position to threaten.” He allowed a tiny smile to twitch the corner of his mouth. “I’ll get your meds. Will you be all right or do you want to lie down?”

John let out a heavy sigh. “’M okay.”

“Stay right there.”

“’k.”

~jw~

As soon as Sherlock was out of sight, John struggled to his feet and wobbled toward the loo. He was sure he could at least do that without Sherlock’s help. Two minutes later, Sherlock found him sitting on the floor, staring at the toilet. 

“John? You don’t listen very well.”

John sighed, not looking up. “No.”

“Standing or sitting?”

“Don’t care.”

Sherlock put his hands under John’s arms to lift him to his feet, and stood him in front of the toilet. John groaned in relief, his legs shaking so badly he could barely stand, but Sherlock held him with both arms round his chest, and lowered his head to press his cheek against John’s.

“You can’t be trusted, my love,” Sherlock whispered against John’s ear. Guided to the sink and supported in Sherlock’s caring embrace, John washed his hands and brushed his teeth.

When he’d finished drying his hands, John turned in Sherlock’s arms and rested his head against his chest. “Sorry.”

Sherlock hugged him, cradling the back of John’s head with his palm. “Next time, you will wait for me, yes? Until you are strong enough for to stand on your own? Please? For me?”

Two steps outside the door, his legs buckled, but Sherlock was there to scoop him into his arms and deposit him on the bed, propping him up on several pillows and covering him with the duvet.

“You will have to earn my trust again, John,” Sherlock said, handing him two pills and holding out a glass of water. John didn’t look up; he didn’t want to know whether or not Sherlock was trying for humor. Better to just pretend he hadn’t heard the words.

~sh~

If he’d thrust out his lower lip, John couldn’t have looked sadder. Sherlock’s heart did a slow turn in his chest as he leaned forward to feather a kiss on John’s poor lips. “Sorry, bad joke.”

John’s eyes filled at once and he looked away; Sherlock felt a flutter in his chest.

“I’ll lock up and then we can cuddle a bit, yes?”

John nodded slowly, but didn’t speak.

In the hallway, Sherlock tried to gather himself as he went about closing up the flat for the night. Seeing John in pain was never easy, especially when the doctor in him tried to hide it. He stood in the middle of the kitchen and buried his fingers in his dark curls, pulling as hard as he dared as his frustration flared.

“John,” he groaned in a low, soft voice so he wouldn’t be heard when the ache in his heart threatened to overwhelm him. Suddenly there was John’s cry and a groan and his own feelings were replaced by panic as he raced to reach their bedroom.

“John? What’s wrong?”

John lay curled in on himself, his hands shaking as he tried to reach his lower leg. He let out a pitiful groan. “S-spa..god. Oh,,god..spas..cramp!”

John’s calf muscle quivered and bunched and looked incredibly painful. There was only one cure, Sherlock knew from his own experience; he forced his fingers into the bunched muscle. When John tried to flex his foot and failed, Sherlock did it for him with his free hand. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, but actually was approximately thirty seconds, the spasm stopped and John’s entire body went limp, his breathing rapid and laboured.

Sherlock scrambled onto the bed, curling his body around him, cradling John’s head in the crook of his elbow. “Are you all right now, John?”

John dragged in a deep breath and nodded a bit. Unwinding himself from around John’s body, Sherlock noted that John was unwilling to move. Sherlock gently adjusted John’s still limp body so that he was on his back, with a pillow supporting his head and shoulders and the offending limb before leaving the bed.

Returning from the loo with a warm flannel, he wiped John’s face, carefully avoiding the stitches, and dabbed at the blood on John’s lip where he’d reopened the split. Finally, he pulled a small tube from the nightstand drawer, warmed it in his palm and squeezed a liberal amount of balm onto his index finger.

“This might sting a bit at first, John.”

“Mmm.” 

Wiping the remainder of the balm on his own t-shirt, Sherlock returned the tube to the drawer, turned off the lamp and climbed over John, settling down next to him with his head on the edge of John’s pillow.

In the dim light from the loo, Sherlock could see that John’s eyes brimmed with tears. “It’s okay to cry if you need to, John. It doesn’t make me think less of you. The opposite is true.”

John turned his head toward Sherlock just as a single tear slipped past his damaged eyelid. Sherlock tenderly kissed away the tear, which invited more tears to follow, each one racing another to the pillow.

~jw~

“John?”

Lifting his gaze to meet Sherlock’s concerned sea-green one, John hoped Sherlock would understand his non-verbal reply. He was just too sad to communicate any other way. He hated the empty feeling, but he just couldn’t find the words. 

“So, where is the only place on your body that doesn’t hurt?”

John tried to smile when he realised Sherlock knew, he always  
Knew, something was not just right, but anything more than a twist to the corner of his mouth was just not on.

“No, don’t, John. Let me guess, I know, I know, I don’t guess, well, sometimes I guess, but only with you.”

Curling his fingers inward, Sherlock used just the tip of his index finger to trace across the lashes on his right eye. John didn’t turn, pull back or close his eye at Sherlock’s touch. He continued to blink slowly, calmly, holding his gaze with Sherlock’s. He trusted his detective with his life, why not his eyelashes?

“Soft. You have the softest eyelashes, John. I don’t think I’ve ever told you that. Well, you do. I love your eyelashes.”

It was a small thing, really, but knowing Sherlock understood meant more to him in that moment than he ever would have imagined.

~sh~

Sherlock lay his head back onto John’s pillow, their mouths barely a hair’s breadth away from each other. Soon after John inhaled deeply, followed by a long sigh, his one good eye drifting shut. 

Sherlock smiled. He closed his own eyes for a bit, but didn’t sleep. He lay there listening to John breathe, and watching his chest rise and fall. As John relaxed, his jaw slackened, his lips parted allowing Sherlock to detect the mint of his toothpaste. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, his fingers over John’s hand which lay between them. In response, John moved closer to him, and barely a second later, he felt John’s lips touch his once, twice, three times.

Sherlock budged up against John’s side as close as he could without putting any weight on his poor bruised body. A shaky sigh, one of many in John’s repertoire, preceded a shiver that seemed to capture John’s entire being.

A distant memory flitted across his mind. He slipped his hand beneath John’s t-shirt and splayed his fingers on his love’s bare belly. John sucked in a sudden breath, his muscles quivering when Sherlock began to draw circles with his fingertips.

“John?”

“Mmmm,” John moaned deep in his throat, but it was a contented moan that made Sherlock smile.

”Is this okay?”

For several seconds, John was quiet. Sherlock was sure he’d finally fallen asleep. Then John turned his hand and intertwined their fingers.

“Don’t stop.” he whispered against Sherlock’s mouth.


End file.
